


Needs Met

by Syntaxeme



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Bondage, Cheating, Cunnilingus, Desperation, Dom/sub, F/F, Fantasizing, Masturbation, Past Relationship(s), Submission, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-02-23 00:47:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23503075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syntaxeme/pseuds/Syntaxeme
Summary: By some cruel twist of fate, Angela finds herself once again working with Moira O’Deorain, an ex with whom she had a particularly complicated (D/s) relationship. Unfortunately for Angela, her thoughts and feelings about Moira refuse to stay in the past, even though she’s supposedly moved on to a new partner. Realizing that the stability and control Moira offers are things she still craves, she finds her pride bending to her own desires.No, not desires. Needs.
Relationships: Moira O'Deorain/Angela "Mercy" Ziegler
Comments: 4
Kudos: 49





	Needs Met

**Author's Note:**

> This story contains Pharmercy elements. This story also involves cheating. If you're bothered by one or both of those things, please just don't interact with the story. I'm not here to engage in any kind of ship war or encourage it among others.

Throughout the entire mission, Angela kept her eyes to herself. She went to the side of anyone who needed her, was mindful of her companions and her surroundings—but no more than “mindful.” She didn’t look closely. She didn’t listen for a particular voice. To be plain, she wasn’t all there. Not to say that anyone suffered for it, but she was very aware of her own condition. Maybe if she had been informed of these _unusual_ circumstances ahead of time, it wouldn’t have affected her so much. Maybe not.

“I much appreciated your aid, Angela. I doubt we would have succeeded without it.” That voice. That was the one she had been trying to ignore all day. Not the words spoken, as they were more than competent, inventive, helpful (as expected) to the mission. The sound itself was what affected her.

“You’re exaggerating,” she answered coolly. “I was only doing my part, Doctor O’Deorain.” Of course, she had known that she wouldn’t escape Moira’s presence altogether. Now that they’d boarded the transport that would deliver them from the field to their accommodations for the night, her fears had been realized.

“‘Doctor,’ is it?” Moira laughed, eyes lingering on Angela’s tense shoulders. “And I thought you and I were better-acquainted than that.”

“Maybe we were at one point.” Why was she carrying on this conversation? Why did she answer when Moira spoke? A conditioned response, she supposed, from years ago, one the sound of that voice had brought back with an intensity she’d never expected. They stood in one corner of the ship, and none of the others present seemed to notice how heavy the air was between them.

“I suppose some time has passed since then. The years show in your eyes, _Doctor Ziegler_ ,” Moira pointed out, hands remaining folded at her back despite the wandering of her gaze. “Your charming optimism has faded.”

Angela gripped her staff more tightly with both hands. “The absolute last thing I’m here to do,” she said quietly, “is ‘charm’ you.” Moira laughed openly at that, and blue eyes stayed fixed in a glare at the floor below.

“Yes, I’m certain you don’t do it intentionally.” Inquisitively inspecting Angela’s armor, she changed the subject: “Your Valkyrie suit has greatly improved since last I saw it. The staff’s function is much more elegant…and I see you carry a sidearm now.”

“It’s purely for self-defense.”

“ _Primum non nocere._ How appropriate. I do wonder what else has changed over the years,” Moira observed. Taking a slow step closer, she went on, “Since we’ll be spending the evening in close quarters, this seems a fine opportunity for a closer look. At the suit, that is. Given your permission.”

Angela’s eyes fell closed as she tried to decide how to answer. She had expected the suggestion—she’d been expecting it since she’d found out they were working together that morning. That it came this late in the day was the only surprise. And of course, she knew it wasn’t really her armor that Moira was interested in. Suffice it to say they’d had a very complicated relationship during her time with Blackwatch; her ‘closer look’ would inevitably become something much more involved. If only Fareeha had come with her, Angela was certain this conversation wouldn’t be taking place at all.

She had been seeing Fareeha outside of work for nearly a year by that point, and they’d been sleeping together for months. Had she been there, her jealousy would have picked up on Moira’s intentions immediately and prevented her from coming anywhere near Angela outside the mission. But she was busy elsewhere at the time, and _of course_ they were both certain that the brief separation wouldn’t be an issue in any way.

“No,” Angela said in what she hoped was a firm tone. “I prefer not to share my inventions with untrustworthy individuals.”

“Untrustworthy?” Moira repeated, though she sounded more amused than offended. “You _have_ changed, _aingeal_.” Still, she didn’t press further. She inclined her head in a semblance of a bow and left to speak with one of their other associates instead. Angela remained silent for the rest of their trip, trying her best not to dwell on the interaction.

She was no psychologist, but she was certain that her response to Moira’s voice was nothing more than Pavlovian conditioning. Not a sign of lingering feelings for her, not a reflection on her mental state. Nothing but a learned reaction that her body had somehow held onto all these years. It was nothing short of a biological betrayal that she should be forced to recall, in vivid detail, the moments that had enforced this affliction.

Moments during the period when they were on the same side. More or less. Moments in her darkened office, after everyone else had gone home for the day. Moments in her apartment or Moira’s, when that voice had given orders for her to obey. With _pleasure_. She recalled the chuckle that came when she begged, the encouraging purr when she was doing well. The shape of Moira’s lips as she spoke. The feeling of those lips on her skin. And her tongue…

Angela groaned, more in irritation with herself than anything, as she tried to push every one of those moot points out of her head. None of it mattered. It was all in the past, and no matter how much she had wanted it—needed it—at the time, it wasn’t going to happen again. Her guilt over even thinking about it only increased when they got back to their hotel and she finally checked her phone to find a missed call from Fareeha. Of course, between their separate time zones and both of them working, it was difficult to find a moment wherein they were both free to talk. But she had left a sweet voicemail, promising to make up for the lost time once they were both home, confessing that her current bed was cold without her ‘dove’ there to share it. Angela listened to the message and felt surprisingly little—little but guilt and disappointment in herself.

She cared about Fareeha. She wouldn’t have been with her if she didn’t. She enjoyed their time together, felt safe and comfortable in her arms, appreciated all the emotional support she provided. Yes, she very selfishly loved every aspect of their relationship. But did she love Fareeha? That, she had yet to answer. Or maybe she had answered it but pretended otherwise, hoped her heart and mind might change with time. Love was such a complicated, messy subject, one she hadn’t had much luck with in the past.

Rather than calling and leaving a voicemail of her own, she answered with a text message, explaining how exhausted she was, hoping that it came off as sincere. The last thing she wanted was to hurt or discourage Fareeha somehow. She didn’t deserve to suffer for Angela’s weakness. More than anything, she wanted to sleep, to be free of the burden of thinking, just for a few hours. But sleep didn’t come easily these days, meaning she had to weigh the costs and benefits of taking medication.

Too many choices, too many decisions, too much responsibility. _Just tell me what to do._ She was so tired. After shedding the many pieces of her armor, wings and all, she put out the lights, crawled into her bed, and pulled the covers up to hide beneath them. Still her mind wouldn’t stop racing—or trudging, at least, as drained as she was.

There was a way to fix it. Something she couldn’t do on her own. From experience, she knew exactly what she needed. Guidance. Stability. She needed to put herself in hands more reliably steady than her own.

Discipline.

 _Subjugation._ She wet her lips at the thought.

For years, she’d been trying to put the thought out of her head, telling herself it wasn’t healthy, that she should find some other way to cope. But what point was there when she already knew the solution?

She had brought the idea up to Fareeha before, but only once or twice. It was obvious that she was uncomfortable with it, with the notion of controlling or, heaven forbid, harming Angela. Too concerned for her comfort. Nevertheless, Fareeha had agreed to try, out of a desire to please her. Already, the motivation was wrong, and a Dom without the confidence to give orders simply couldn’t provide the firm hand Angela needed. So she tried instead to forget that feeling and be satisfied with everything else Fareeha _could_ give. And she gave no small amount.

Then came this mission, and she was forced to confront Moira again. Moira, who had never hesitated to control her. Moira, who had been the one to show her how sweet it could be to submit. Moira, whose voice still set her blood on fire and practically made her mouth water.

She recalled their earlier conversation, her own cold and insulting words, and some stupid, desperate part of her wished Moira had slapped them out of her mouth. Wished she could feel those long fingers close around her throat and tighten when she tried to argue. Wished for nails on her back and teeth on her throat and that voice, that _damned_ , delicious voice filling her ears. She hated herself for it. She hated Moira for it, too, for so permanently etching these thoughts and feelings and desires into her psyche.

The room was pitch dark, even darker under her sheets. She let her eyes fall closed and tried to push past mistakes out of her mind, reminding herself where she was at this point in her life and why it was better. Groping blindly in the dark, she reached for her nightstand and grabbed her earpiece to replace it. Trying to chase Moira’s voice out of her mind, she replayed Fareeha’s voicemail and focused on every syllable, imagining the shape of Fareeha’s lips as she spoke them.

If she tried, now and again, she could more or less fabricate a scenario in which Fareeha was willing to be the Dom she needed. Perhaps she came home from a mission frustrated and needed to take her anger out physically. Perhaps she grew tired of Angela’s asking and decided to give her what she wanted as roughly as possible. It was invariably some exception to her usual character, but Angela wanted it regardless.

Yet this time, her imagination couldn’t seem to muster the image. She couldn’t take the sound of Fareeha’s voice and turn it into a growl, a demand, an order. “ _Verdammt_ ,” she breathed, pausing the recording. Several moments passed in silence, and, with her digital library still open, Angela noticed a folder in Shared Media that hadn’t been there before. It was labelled with that day’s date and their location. She hadn’t considered this but knew what it must be. The communications from her mission earlier that day would’ve been recorded, and they were now available for her to review. Immediately, her mind deduced that if she wanted to—if she _chose_ to—she could hear Moira’s voice instead.

No. She wouldn’t. Even if Fareeha’s trust weren’t part of the equation, the shame it would evoke would be too much for her to bear. After all these years, giving in to those old desires, being pathetic enough to use Moira’s voice as a catalyst for her pleasure? She wouldn’t do it.

Although. It would be so very easy. Or…perhaps it would be helpful to her future combat maneuvers. Yes, that was very possible. It could have merit of a different sort. Biting her lip hard, still fighting with her conscience, she opened the folder before she could stop herself. And, of course, the comms were separated into those of each individual squad member. Another moment of hesitation. Then she played the file labeled _O’Deorain – support 2_ and waited.

“I do hope that you’re quite certain about this,” Moira said, as she had in response to their team leader’s plan of charging in without much effort at regrouping the team. Hearing it sent a chill down Angela’s spine. The cold, judgmental tone in Moira’s voice was maddening, as it always had been.

 _Please_ , she might have begged, all those years ago. _How many times can I say it? I want this. I need it._

“Do you truly believe that’s wise?” Moira’s voice in her ear, and Angela slid one hand slowly along her collarbone, down to her chest. “Do not make me repeat myself.”

 _Mein Gott._ Angela bit her lower lip hard, her bare hand sliding underneath her form-fitting shirt to trail up her stomach and tease her breasts. Her hands were neither as long nor as inexplicably cold as Moira’s, but her imagination could supply the missing details.

“Come back here, _in ainm Dé_!” Moira growled, exasperated, and Angela began to remember such phrases she’d used in their dark, heated moments together. _An-mhaith_ and _ná stad_ and _féin a iompar_. Starting to lose track of her breathing, Angela let her shaking free hand wander slowly downward, down her stomach toward her hips.

“Do you want this or not?” Moira demanded cooly. “Yes? Then _listen_ to me.” Angela paused, the last vestiges of her pride still desperate to remain unbroken. Every word weakened her will further, and she could so easily imagine—no, recall—Moira holding her down, guiding her every move. “This is dangerous.”

“Oh, it is,” Angela chuckled under her breath. If she allowed herself this much, where would she draw the line? If she touched herself, imagined Moira touching her, if she orgasmed to the sound of her ex-lover’s voice, how would she still pretend that Moira had no power over her? She should stop. She should pause the audio and focus on trying to sleep.

“Ah-ah-ah. Come back to me now.”

She never was willing to disobey a direct command.

“ _Stop_ fighting,” Moira snapped. That tone of irritation, of impatience, got to Angela even more. “Do as I say and I will keep you safe.”

Despite herself, she slid her hand lower to edge into her tights. God, she’d missed this. _Tell me what to do_ , she begged silently. _What do you want? What am I allowed?_ What was that pet name she had always used?

“ _Mo chuisle._ ” Angela could imagine the words as if they were spoken directly into her ear, Moira’s breath falling hot against her skin.

“Yes,” she breathed out loud, sliding her hand lower still, letting her fingers slip between her legs and find how wet she was already. Of course. Moira’s voice had always had that effect on her. “Tell me. Please.” By this point, she was so thoroughly entrenched in her memories that she hardly needed the recording; she could simply imagine what Moira might tell her.

“Not yet, mo chuisle. Have patience,” she chided. And Angela pulled her hand back, no matter how much she wanted it. It was her own body. This was just a fantasy. But the fantasy had power over her, and she _wanted_ it to. “Good girl. You have been neglected of late, haven’t you, pet? And how patient you’ve been for me, how faithful.”

Again: “Yes.” Her fingertips continued to trail very lightly along the hem of her tights, her other hand still groping and teasing her chest. Slowly, almost lazily.

“Such sweetness deserves a reward, does it not?” She could imagine Moira’s tongue on her neck, and she begged for a mark—a bite, a bruise, a hickey, something. Something to mark her. Property. A possession. An object. So much easier that way. No agency meant no accountability. “That’s it, aingeal. Let me take care of everything.” She could have sobbed for how desperately she wanted it. No one asking her for help. No one looking to her for answers. No one criticizing her performance.

“I’ll be good,” she whispered. She could feel Moira’s hands on her shoulders, trailing down her arms, forcing her shirt up, her tights down, so she was exposed beneath the sheets. She lacked the presence of mind to be embarrassed. Fingertips traced her lips, and she obediently let them part, allowing Moira’s fingers to slide wetly over her tongue.

“Of course you will. You always are. I discipline you because I know you enjoy it, not because you misbehave.”

“I—”

“Hush.” Her voice was sharp, fingers sliding deeper, almost far enough to make Angela gag. “Manners, my pet. We mustn’t speak with our mouth full.”

Angela forced herself into silence, doing all she could to obey. Wet fingers slid past her lips, allowing her only a moment to catch her breath before sliding down between her legs. She was already so wet, so hot, and she could hear Moira purr, “Deny it all you like, but your body knows you want this.” One finger pressed inside her, slowly, drawing a shuddering breath from her lips. Then a second, faster, to steal her breath altogether. Still, she tried so hard to be quiet and still, to be whatever Moira wanted of her.

Friction between her legs, and her heart raced, her cheeks flushed with desire. Yes, she wanted it, and God, she’d wanted it for so long. Yet she managed to keep her hips still, to not buck them upward and beg for more. No. She’d been patient. She could continue to be patient.

“Such discipline, mo chuisle. It seems I made quite a lasting impression on you.” Laughter, and she recognized the feeling of being teased and praised simultaneously. She recognized it and found she had missed it. “But it’s not my intention to leave you wanting.” Those fingers moved faster, and Angela let out a low moan of desire, biting her lip hard to stifle her voice.

There was no answer for a moment, not because Angela became conscious of the fact that she was lying alone in bed and essentially talking to herself, but as a test, perhaps even a punishment; Moira withholding her voice because she knew Angela wanted it so badly. Those fingers drew out of her and slipped across her clit instead, slick and hot from being inside, sending a delicious chill through her body. Moira’s next order was simple but stern: “Beg.”

“Please,” Angela panted without a moment’s hesitation, fingertips moving steadily but not fast or hard enough to give her what she needed. Her voice was strained, breathless. “Please, let me cum. _Make_ me cum. I’ll be good. I’ll be whatever you want.” These weren’t promises made in desperation; they were her own desires as well.

“You always are, mo chuisle. Now cum for me and prove it.”

Her fingers moved, pressed, circled, rubbed, fast enough that she lost her breath, lost her voice, all but lost her mind. Trembling, tense all over, she gave herself over to a powerful orgasm, clamping her free hand over her mouth so Moira’s name couldn’t pass her lips in her ecstasy. The pleasure hit her in waves, even stronger than she’d remembered, until everything melted into hot, tingling contentment. As she was coming down, she realized the audio file was still playing.

“And it could have been this simple to begin with if only you hadn’t been so stubborn.”

The laugh she let slip was light, soft, for once not laced with bitterness and irony. Everything felt much lighter now, in fact.

After forcing herself up for a hot shower and a change of clothes, Angela went back to bed feeling more lucid, more calm than she had in some time. This pretend scene with Moira was just a fantasy, it was true, but the wonders it had done her mind were undeniable. The sexual gratification was wholly secondary to the psychological release it had given her. It was like taking a full breath for the first time after a half-decade of slowly suffocating. Like being honest about who she was and what she needed after so long trying to change. And if just the _thought_ of surrendering could help so much, she could only imagine what it would feel like in reality. To actually be with Moira again.

_Just once. Just one more time, and it’ll be enough. To get it out of my system once and for all… To get her out of my head…_

She slept better that night than she had in years.


End file.
